


there are songs i'll never write

by callunavulgari



Category: Merlin (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Demons, F/F, F/M, Gore, Hell Fic, POV Second Person, Unhealthy Relationships, demons in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:46:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't know her by name, at first. None of you have names in hell, you are all one writhing, screaming mass of matter that once upon a time fancied yourselves as human. For a time, she is your executioner—your torturer. She slides razor blades across your skin like a caress, peels your skin from your body and unmakes you from the inside. You die at her hands time and time again, her face the first and the last thing you see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there are songs i'll never write

**Author's Note:**

> For Femslash February, emanga wanted a SPN/Merlin crossover of some kind, possibly Ruby/Morgana. It got dark and sad, but I'm fond of it anyway.

You don't know her by name, at first. None of you have names in hell, you are all one writhing, screaming mass of matter that once upon a time fancied yourselves as human. For a time, she is your executioner—your torturer. She slides razor blades across your skin like a caress, peels your skin from your body and unmakes you from the inside. You die at her hands time and time again, her face the first and the last thing you see.  
  
She names you, though that isn't her intention. She laughs, splits your skin apart and her sneer is like a smile when she tells you, "Your blood glistens like rubies, so _pretty._ Would you like me to close you back up, my little gem?"  
  
At your nod, sobs wracking your body and mucus smeared across your lips, she slits your throat.  
  
When you become aware once more, your blood is dried and crusting in your hair, but the wound you remember is gone. She realizes you're awake at once and stops playing with her favorite knife, smiling brightly at you. "Shall we start again?"  
  
.  
  
You all forget that in hell, you have no true body. The memories of the flesh are powerful, fresh in your mind long after you are dead, and you feel each cut upon your soul as if you still have skin to split apart. You forget, that it isn't skin, muscle, and bone on the rack—that it's your soul that they're mutilating beyond all recognition.  
  
Hell makes you forget.  
  
With each century that passes in hell, your soul diminishes, until its brightness is hardly a glow at all.  
  
.  
  
By the time you're off the rack, you've forgotten your true name. You only know the one she gave you—Ruby—her precious little gemstone who cries like a little girl and bleeds like a stuck pig. For decades, you are placed in her shoes, and this time, it's your knives peeling souls apart.  
  
They cry and scream, curse you until you tire of it and cut out their tongue. The human part of you, that tiny part that still cares, recoils, and screams until you consider dashing your skull on a rock just to make it stop.  
  
It doesn't take much longer for that part of you to either die or hide so deep inside you that you can't find it. No matter, at least the screaming had stopped.  
  
.  
  
You claw your way free twice. Once in the late 1700s and again in the 21st century. The first time, it doesn't take long for a wayward hunter to send you screaming back to hell, your host sagging to the floor like a bag of shit once you're gone. He won't get back up again, no matter what the hunter does, he's been dead for weeks.  
  
When you're back in hell, she takes one look at you and sneers. "You stink of humans," she tells you and turns her back.  
  
.  
  
You know next to nothing of her, just that she's been there for _eons_ longer than you. (And you've been there for a long, long time.) You know that she is like you, that magic oozes from her soul like pus—that even if it had been pure at the start, it's dripping with black now.  
  
(You wonder if she sees the same when she looks at you, if over the years on the rack she watched your magic bleed, dark and rancid.  
  
The sights one sees in hell makes one long for blindness.)  
  
Sometimes she appears as smoke, the impression of red lips in a murky fog. Other times she shapes herself into the monster one would expect from those in hell, maw drooling viscous foul liquid, horns a sharp point, body like that of a gargoyle. Rarer still are the times that she appears as woman, elfin and pale with cracked lips and the darkest of hair. You think that that particular form is probably the one that holds the most truth, for it only appears when she slips up—when she's feeling fond of you or when she's at her most bloodthirsty.  
  
In all the long years that you've been in hell, you know that she's been there for _so much_ longer.  
  
You also know that until now, she's never left.

.

You fall in love with Lucifer's voice while she's earthbound, the seductive twang of Enochian gone sour—just his words, a prophecy that Lilith had hidden away, waiting for the right time.  
  
You are only ever John Winchester's torturer once. Giddy for the chance to be the one to crack the righteous man, you pull out all the tricks she taught you, slipping yourself into his very veins.  
  
He is quiet the entire time, his jaw set and his eyes steely.  
  
By the time you are done with him, he is a red mess of viscera, but nary a whimper has passed his lips.  
  
.  
  
There are rumors of another righteous man, the very son of John Winchester, and he has just pledged his soul to hell.  
  
.  
  
The second time you claw yourself free from hell, you find her sitting in a cafe in Paris, a smoldering cigarette at her lips and a cup of tea gone cold before her.  
  
"Your meatsuit is an eyesore," she tells you, her voice high and perfectly English.  
  
The human that she's chosen looks much like the form you know from hell—the true one, that you think only you have seen. She wears the woman like an expensive suit, all dark hair and green-blue eyes, a necklace of silver and rubies around her neck.  
  
You scoff at her. Your host is a twenty-two year old girl from Texas, blonde and pretty. She spends most of the time sobbing for her mother. "What can I say, it's a rental."  
  
She flashes you a look that might be amusement, taking a sip of her cold tea and making a face.  
  
"Why now?" you ask her, the curiosity too much. "You haven't left hell in millenia, why would you leave now?"  
  
Her lips curl. "How cute," she breathes. "Did you miss me, pet?"  
  
You did, terribly. She's the one thing in hell that means something to you, the closest thing to a friend, a lover, and a rival that you have. But you aren't about to tell her that. Sentimentality isn't her strong suit.  
  
You shrug. "Barely noticed you were gone until I realized how quiet things had gotten down there."  
  
She laughs, and you think she sees the lie for what it is, but she says nothing of it.  
  
.  
  
"My name is Morgana," she tells you later, her cheek pillowed on your bare thigh.  
  
You lick your lips, squirming when she exhales against you, nuzzling the place between your legs. You don't remember your name.  
  
"Ruby," you breathe into the quiet, feeling suddenly very small.  
  
.  
  
"What do you think you're doing with them?" she asks you, much later, when the smell of Winchester's clings to your skin. They don't yet trust you, but you think that Sam is close to it. You fear his brother may be a lost cause.  
  
"Playing," you say, Lucifer's voice in the back of your head.  
  
You are playing, just not the game she thinks.  
  
.  
  
When Dean dies, Sam is yours.  
  
.  
  
The first seal breaks and you claw yourself from hell one last time.  
  
.  
  
"I like this meatsuit much better," Morgana tells you, her voice wavering when you crook your fingers inside her.  
  
"Got a thing against blondes?" you breathe against her neck. "Or are you just a narcissist?"  
  
Your banter needs some work, you still look nothing like her. But your hair is nearly as dark as hers now, your eyes almost the same shade. She rolls her hips against your hand, hissing when you swipe your thumb over her clit.  
  
"I've never much fancied the color," she growls, spasming when her orgasm hits.  
  
.  
  
Sam's mouth is at your wrist—lips red with your blood, his cock thick and full inside of you. You twist against him, rock yourself down, and revel at the way he gasps and comes inside you.  
  
(Later, you'll make her lick him out of you, laughing when she gives you a flat look and lets you know that you taste like cock.)  
  
Your plan is going so well.  
  
.  
  
"You never did tell me, why _did_ you decide to rejoin the living now?"  
  
There's a part of you that hopes your plans coincide, that secretly she's working to free Lucifer as well. She looks at you for a moment, her lips pursed and her eyes shrewd.  
  
"I'm waiting for someone," she finally says, and that's all she'll ever tell you.  
  
.  
  
The last time you see her is in England, at the shore of a glittering lake.  
  
You don't say hello.  
  
You don't say goodbye.  
  
You just stand with her, watching the water until the sunlight starts to fade.

.

(You die for good—no hell waiting for you this time, just the endless dark—releasing Lucifer from hell, Sam at your back and Dean at your front—Morgana's favorite knife twisted in your guts.  
  
Yours was not a love story, but it was _yours_ —  
  
Your last thought is of her, at the lakeside, waiting.)


End file.
